I Bet My Life
by ArmedWithAPen
Summary: In which a young goddess addicted to gambling agrees to do her sister one small favor, and gets much more than she bargained for. Alternately, the night La Muerte got her locket. La Muerte/Xibalba. Gravepainters.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: After a long haitus, I return to the BoL fandom, due in a large part to the much-welcomed PMs from MissEmmaLights and dinogaby (you and I have the same taste in OTP songs, my friend). I would like to dedicate the following scribblings to you. You two are awesome. _

_Inspired by the recent tweets of our lord and master JG and the many illustrious artists who poured their blood, sweat, and tears into making this film and creating these characters, which we have the privilege to enjoy. And use for our own dastardly amusement. A sincere thank you from the bottom of our hearts._

* * *

**Slave Unto The Night**

It was a magical time of year in Mexico.

In the small, dusty town of San Angel, summer was coming lazily to a close, spinning in the last slow movements of a dance that smelled like a warm sea and flowers. She was drifting gently, gratefully into the arms of the cool fall nights which embraced her, tenderly as a lover; nights that were as clear as glass with a view straight up into the stars, nights that whispered of change and promises, vowing that after a stormy, wet winter, spring would return once again.

_Nights like these_, a young goddess breathed deeply, tasting autumn on the back of her tongue, _were made to be loved. _She released her breath in a wisp of steam that rose into the scintillating sky and faded as she watched. "If only this night could last forever," she whispered after it.

"No, if only this night were finally _over!" _the sharp reply came from her left."I can't stand it, La Muerte, I just can't! Not a moment longer!"

Pulled back to planet Earth, the beautiful sugar skull cast her companion a long-suffering glance. "It will be over soon enough, La Noche. You'll see. Everything will be perfect."

But if La Noche heard a word her sister said, she didn't show it. Her eyes were locked onto the foggy glass window in front of her as though she'd drop dead if she dared to look away (which was impossible, of course, as La Noche had never been "alive" to begin with).

Around the pair of deities, the streets of San Angel echoed with joyous laughter as citizens wandered the night, enjoying the last vestiges of summer and simultaneously welcoming the cooler weather. The square was littered with passersby making a late-night _paseo, _stopping at a café for a quick cup of coffee, or cooling their feet, weary from a day of labor, in the bubbling stone fountain. Children scampered back and forth across the cobblestones, lovers murmured sweet nothings into each other's ears, and old men played dominoes under the blazing blue gas lamps surrounding the square. It seemed as though every inhabitant on the little island had agreed that they would make this one night a party throughout the town, and everyone was invited.

Normally, the crowds would have made La Muerte nervous. After all, even though both she and her twin were nearly three centuries old, they were still mere teenagers by godly standards, and as such their powers had yet to fully manifest. La Noche had finally perfected her invisibility spell only this morning, or else neither would have been where they were now, crouched in front of the antique San Angel bar, _El Tigre de Tijuana, _peering into the windows like bandits preparing for a robbery.

Invisible or not, to the outside eye, La Muerte was fairly certain that they would make a strange sight. She and La Noche were huddled together under her scarlet wool _rebozo_, since La Noche had simply refused to wear anything appropriate for a fall night and had instead picked out her very favorite Aztec outfit, complete with an entire array of quetzal feathers and honestly very little else. La Muerte, ever practical, had been only too happy to share her warm shawl after she had caught a thoroughly miserable La Noche eyeing it longingly, her golden bangles making little chiming noises as she shivered. Between the two of them, they kept quite warm beneath the enormous woolen shawl.

Unfortunately, no amount of warmth could help the cause of her sister's present shaking, which La Muerte suspected was from something other than cold. With a guttural swear, La Noche threw off the blanket, leapt to her feet and began pacing tight circles a short distance away. La Muerte rose, laughing gently as she secured the _rebozo _around her shoulders.

"I don't know what you're so nervous about," she said. "It isn't as though it's the first time you've seen him, after all."

"It's the first time in years, _hermanita_," La Noche hissed, kicking viciously at the dust with her bare white feet. Her turquoise skirt flared around her knees, and the sugar crystals in her skin winked in the light from the window. "Ever since he came back from war."

La Muerte smiled. "Your own knight in shining armor."

Her sister's responding glare almost melted the candles on her modest silver tiara. "This isn't a joke, La Muerte."

"I'm not joking!" La Muerte insisted, but though she tried, she couldn't quite wipe the grin from her face. Rare were the moments that she witnessed her twin sister so emotionally charged; La Noche was renowned far and wide for her calm, aloof demeanor, detached from life as though she were a star in the heavens, millions of miles away. So when something finally managed to penetrate the goddess' icy, collected exterior, La Muerte couldn't help feeling a little sense of triumphant amusement.

Managing to subdue her smile, she moved forward, making a peace offering of the _rebozo. _But La Noche, incensed, only huffed and moved stubbornly away, arms crossed and face sour, the blue feathers in her hair trembling as she shivered.

Her sister rolled her eyes. "Come here and get warm, you'll get sick standing out there in the cold."

"Gods don't get sick."

"No." Smirking, La Muerte removed the shawlfrom around her shoulders and draped it tenderly over her sister's. La Noche's leather wraps and gold earrings might have been well-suited to the summer heart of a tropical jungle to the south, but in the nippy fall air they were insufficient protection. Her own white blouse and long scarlet skirt were much more comfortable, and she could sacrifice her warm shawl for the sake of her older sister. "No, gods might not get sick. But a little sister can worry, can't she?"

Almost despite herself, La Noche smiled fondly. "_Little? _Only by a few minutes."

"Still counts." La Muerte watched, satisfied, as La Noche gratefully pulled the wrap around her body. After a few moments, during which her twin finally stopped shivering, she asked softly, "How much longer do you think he'll be? When did you agree to meet?"

"Midnight. But it would be just like him if he was late, making me wait a little longer." La Noche pursed her lips, tracing absent patterns across the yellow marigolds embroidered on her sister's _rebozo. _"He does so love his games…"

At the word _games_, La Muerte's dulce-de-leche heart skipped so wildly in her chest that she had to close her eyes to calm herself. It was no secret to the godly pantheon that its youngest member had a vicious penchant for gambling, a strange addiction for one as otherwise level-headed as La Muerte. Nevertheless, anything, cards, bets, dice, games of chance, she was a sucker for them all, and it was often a great struggle to keep such impulses under control. On the twins' fifth birthday, their parents had surprised them with their first visit to the sparkling capital of the gods, Tenochtitlan. La Muerte had in turn surprised her parents by vanishing soon after their arrival, and after many an hour of frantic searching, they were forced to physically drag her away from a backgammon table in the Great Hall, much to the amusement of Tlaloc and Ehecatl who had been only too happy teaching the little goddess the rules of the game.

La Muerte had never met her sister's suitor, this lord they called Xibalba, and she silently thanked her lucky stars every day. While perhaps not as enthusiastic a gambler as her, she had heard that the King of the Land of the Forgotten did appear occasionally at Tonatiuh's sporadic dice tournaments; a great disheartenment to the other players since he _always_ won, brutally and efficiently.

And were he to bet against her, she would never be able to resist.

Squinting, La Muerte examined the illuminated clock face on the opposite side of the square. "It's not quite midnight. Perhaps another five minutes."

La Noche growled, beginning to pace again. "I hate this. If it turns midnight and he's not here, we're leaving."

"I don't see what all the fuss is over," La Muerte frowned, peering into the bar. Aside from the usual patrons, bedecked in ponchos and sombreros enjoying their nightly ritual of tapas and beer, she saw nothing. Nothing remotely godlike. "If it's the first time he's back from war in, what, years, shouldn't you be overjoyed to see him?"

La Noche's pacing tightened.

"Especially after all the letters, the flowers," La Muerte continued, smiling. She had never heard of the Lord Xibalba before the night of her and La Noche's shared _quinciñera, _when she—distracted by the mountain of fresh churros steaming on the dessert table—had been lost from her sister's side for the rest of the evening. After the party was over, La Noche had found her in short order, wide-eyed and bubbling about the tall, dark stranger with black wings who had asked her to dance. Her parents had been ecstatic. Since that day, it was common knowledge that the young Lord of the Land of the Forgotten was enamored with the Lady La Noche, who he planned to make his wife.

And for all appearances, it seemed to be true. He had called often, sent many gifts and letters, and everyone agreed wholeheartedly that it was probably the smartest match the Afterworld had seen since the marriage of Xiuhtecuhtli, the god of fire, to Xantico, the goddess of fireplaces.

"After all," La Muerte said, casting her sister a playful grin. "You love him, right?"

Regaining some of her former bravado, La Noche smirked patronizingly at her sister and straightened, arranging the _rebozo _around her like a royal robe. "He amuses me. He's charming, intelligent, every inch the proper gentleman. It's just…" She paused, bit her lip, and suddenly found a fleck of dust on her loincloth terribly interesting.

La Muerte finished the thought for her. "It's just that _you've_ been a little less than a lady, is that it?"

La Noche visibly deflated, wincing as though the other goddess' words had physically run her through with a spear. "Perhaps."

_Perhaps. _La Muerte cocked an eyebrow. It had been quite a few years since that fateful night of their _quinciñera_, quite a few years that the Lord Xibalba had made his feelings for her sister more than explicit, and quite a few years of consistent snubbing on the part of La Noche, who couldn't even be bothered to give the god the time of day. His letters had never been answered, though all of them were read with a casual air of inconsequence, and in later years a few even kept lovingly stashed in the back of a stocking drawer (as La Muerte had discovered during a quick search for her favorite blouse which La Noche _always _borrowed without permission). The sent flowers had initially been sniffed at and cast into the wastebasket without so much as a second glance, but lately had found themselves in a delicate crystal vase, a place of honor on the bedside table, nevertheless thrown swiftly out the window if anyone happened to notice and comment on them. And when the lord called, expected or un, the eldest daughter of the royal family was always conveniently out in town, visiting a neighboring realm, or in possession of such a frightful headache that it was impossible for her to have visitors (though, in later years, no matter how frightful the headache, the eldest daughter might have found it in herself to creep down the stairs and peer at her would-be guest from behind the safety of some velvet curtains).

La Muerte sighed, glancing again into the bar. "Well, you've got to give him credit for sticking around this long. The man is a masochist."

"_¡Ya, hermanita, por favor!" _ La Noche hissed. "I know I was a fool, alright? Give it a rest!"

Stung, La Muerte whirled, staring wide-eyed at her sister, whose anger was instantly replaced in quick succession by guilt, sadness, and finally defeat.

"I'm sorry, _dulcita_," she apologized softly, golden eyes downcast. She slid down the stucco wall across from the bar window and landed with a soft _flump _in the dusty street, cradling her head in her hands. The quetzal feathers in her long black hair formed striking patterns against with her white-sugar fingers. "I just don't know what to do."

And with that quiet, reluctant confession, any trace of amusement caused by her sister's rampaging emotions fled La Muerte's heart like crows from a cornfield. Filled with sympathy, the younger goddess approached gently, taking a seat beside her twin.

"It's been so long," La Noche continued, raising her head wearily and staring up at the sky. "What if his feelings have…changed?"

At that, La Muerte couldn't help but scoff. From many a past experience, she knew that anything (or anyone) that caught her sister's eye was as good as hers; and besides, it was obvious to everyone that La Noche was the most beautiful, most elegant, most _eligible _goddess in the pantheon. Any lord, Xibalba or otherwise, would have to be a paragon of fools to give up a chance with her.

So La Muerte grinned. "Don't be silly. I don't think he could change his feelings for you if he wanted to."

Nothing raised La Noche's spirits quite like a compliment. She shot her sister a side glance. "You think so?"

"Of course not. You're charming, intelligent, well-mannered, and stunningly beautiful." La Muerte paused. "Well, at least, that's what _I _am, and since you're my twin, it must be somewhere in you, too."

"Only more-so," La Noche smirked, "Since I am older, after all."

"I wouldn't bet on that."

"For the sake of the royal treasury, let's hope not." But suddenly, the laughing smile that had appeared on La Noche's face vanished like dew on a hot cobblestone. As the clock tower across the square began to toll the midnight hour, her eyes darted to the bar window and widened to the size of dinner plates. "Oh, _anciosos me ayudan, _there he is."

"Really? Where?!" La Muerte scrambled for the window to get a peek at her sister's mysterious suitor, but La Noche threw herself bodily on top of the goddess in a flying tackle that nearly knocked La Muerte's tiara from her head. The _rebozo _went flying. All she had seen was a pair of enormous, black wings seated at the bar.

"Are you insane? He'll see us!"

"I thought that was the point! You're going to meet him, aren't you?"

Panting, La Noche seized her little sister under the armpits and dragged her to hide beneath the window, throwing an arm across her torso to keep her pinned while she snuck a glance into the bar.

"Not yet," she wheezed, the feathers atop her head dancing madly as her shaking intensified. "I need a few more minutes."

"You've had plenty of minutes!" La Muerte growled, struggling under her sister's powerful grip. "Just go in there. Get it over with."

For a few tense moments, the only noises between the two goddesses was the laughing ambiance of the square behind them and their breathing. La Noche looked positively frazzled, eyes darting first from the window to her little sister to the mouth of the alley and back again. La Muerte tensed; her twin looked like a cornered jaguar debating whether fighting or flight-ing was the best option.

In this case, she opted for flight.

"I can't do this," she hissed, and before La Muerte's eyes, she transformed into a silver-turquoise ball of stardust and quetzal feathers and vanished over the rooftops.

"_La Noche!" _Just as quickly, La Muerte followed, a little shooting star of marigolds that zipped into the night. They met on top of the church steeple, both goddesses popping back into existence, La Noche looking wide-eyed and half-insane, La Muerte fuming.

"La Noche, no! You can't do this again," she hissed, the candles on her tiara flaming brightly in the darkness. "You go back there and you meet him, like you said you would!"

"I can't,_ hermanita, I can't!" _La Noche cried, throwing up her hands. "What would I say? What would I do? I don't even know how to begin!"

Normally, La Muerte prided herself on her patience. She liked to think she was one of the more level-headed goddesses in the pantheon, compassionate, slow to anger, always willing to compromise. But it was after midnight. She was cold, tired, and hungry, and she wanted nothing more than to be back in her parents' _palacio _on the border of the Lands of the Remembered and the Unknown, curled up with a cup of hot chocolate, a blanket, and her guitar.

"_Hola _is always a great option!" she snarled, stamping one petite red slipper on the clay shingles. _Pause. Focus. Breathe in and out. _La Muerte closed her eyes and counted to ten before continuing, "La Noche, this might be your only chance. If you don't see him now, you might lose his attention forever."

Her sister was wavering. She stood at the very edge of the rooftop, staring into _El Tigre de Tijuana's _windows so intently that La Muerte half-expected the bar to catch fire. Her turquoise quetzal feathers quivered in the breeze, and her golden earrings winked in the moonlight.

La Muerte bit her lip and played her last card, the card she _knew _would get her sister's attention. "You know how you hate to lose."

The other gods could say what they might about them as twins; that they looked alike in every way, but that their personalities were total and complete opposites. That both were equally beautiful, equally passionate and ferocious, but rivals in everything they did, eager to distinguish themselves as goddesses and individuals. Say all these things and more, but it was undeniable that both shared a thirst for the game, a thirst to _win_. For La Noche, in love, for La Muerte, in cards.

So, when her older sister slowly straightened, her golden eyes narrowed in thought, La Muerte felt every bone in her immortal body melt with relief.

"I do hate to lose," she said slowly. Her sister grinned in triumph. She straightened her blouse, summoned her _rebozo _with a snap of her fingers, and opened her mouth to tell La Noche to go for it.

"But so does _he_."

The _calaca _in red froze stone-still. _That _phrase was unexpected. "_What?" _

With a small _pop! _and the smell of crisp night air, La Noche appeared in front of her twin and seized her by the shoulders, golden eyes boring into hers. "La Muerte, I want you to go in my place."

It took a moment for the words to register, but when they did, La Muerte came to violent life. "Me?!" She shook off the teenage goddess' hands like a moth-eaten shirt, fire blazing to life behind her eyes. _"¿Estás completamente loca? _What would I say?"

Eyes alive and mouth grinning ecstatically, La Noche seemed to only vaguely hear her. Her mind was somewhere else, absorbed in thought, which both simultaneously unnerved and infuriated her sister. "I don't know, make something up! Tell him I'm sick."

"Gods don't get sick."

"Tell him I've got urgent business to attend to that concerns the mortals."

"You couldn't care less about the mortals and he knows that."

"True." Thus stymied, La Noche returned to herself momentarily, tapping her painted chin with a long white finger. But, apparently deciding that excuses were now part of her little sister's job description, she smirked. "Well, make something up! I have a plan."

La Muerte glared at her fiercely. "A plan that involves your little sister making a fool of herself in front of _Lord Xibalba_? No, thank you. I've heard he eats people who waste his time."

"Listen," La Noche insisted, grasping La Muerte's panicking hands and holding them in front of her like she was trying to calm a pair of birds. "If Xibalba has waited this long to get my attention, he'll wait a little longer. If this was a battle, I'd want a first assault to be on my own territory, a home advantage. I want to invite him to the palace."

"This is _love_, this isn't a chess game!"

"Everything's a chess game, _dulcita_," La Noche said with a far-away voice, staring into the distance as though she were plotting out her next moves already. "I can't see him tonight. Our first meeting must be in the palace. La Muerte, I need you to go in there, talk, be charming, and invite him to lunch tomorrow."

"_Lunch?! _La Noche, have you lost your mind? He doesn't even know who I am!"

"La Muerte, please." With firm, resolute hands, La Noche took her sister's shoulders, staring into golden eyes set in a white face that almost perfectly mirrored her own; identical, were it not for the geometric stripes across La Noche's face that contrasted sharply with La Muerte's gentle spirals and flowers.

"Please, _hermanita,_" she repeated. "I need you to do this for me. I need your help."

La Muerte quavered, and some little part of her fumed internally. La Noche was ruthless when it came to using her little sister's compassion even against herself. Nothing would have delighted her more than to scream _NO _in her sister's face and vanish before her eyes. She blinked once, twice, but when she realized that she had already given in, she sighed.

"Alright."

Instantly, La Noche lit up like the full moon. She deftly kissed her little sister on both cheeks. "You won't regret this, La Muerte, I promise you won't."

She withered. "Something tells me I already do."

"The palacio tomorrow around one, alright? Lunch."

"Lunch."

"Wonderful!" And just before she vanished into stardust, La Noche nudged her little sister's shoulder and smirked. "You're the best, _hermanita._"

And then she was gone, the only thing left behind the twinkle of the heavens and a light, chiming laughter.

La Muerte grimaced, straightened her shawl, and cleared her throat. "Lunch. One o'clock. Right. Congratulations, La Muerte, you're nothing more than the Lady of the Unknown's errand girl."

But there was nothing more for it. So she swallowed, closed her eyes, and disappeared in a cloud of marigolds.

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_A/N: This took me a week to write: I'm trash. No Xibalba in this one (and, honestly, he's the one we all come to see), but trust me, my lovelies, he's the heart of the next installment. Please let me know if anything was horribly off in this (¿"dulcita" no es español? / Look, an OC-esque La Noche!). Questions and comments are always more than welcome. _


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: Oh my goodness. Still not completely satisfied with this. But finally Xibalba convinced me to post it anyway because two weeks was too long for one measly chapter to live on a hard drive. My sincerest apologies, milord. You were right, as always. _

_Everything belongs to Jorge Gutierrez and the various and sundry sickeningly gifted artists who developed, produced, and starred in this gem of a film. Our ever-undying gratitude._

* * *

**Taking The Path**

As far as local watering holes went, La Muerte supposed that _El Tigre de Tijuana _was as good as it got. The ceiling was low and clouded with wisps of cigar smoke, just enough to smell like hard work and sunset and not enough to make someone choke. Laughter and the sounds of clinking glasses filled the room like a sort of music that mingled with the small mariachi band in the corner, ambling gently through something happy and slow. The wooden wagon-wheel chandeliers hanging above washed everything with a golden candlelight that played nicely against the blue flames of the oil lamps on the tables, and her slippers made soft crunching sounds as they crossed the threshold, sounds that eventually faded as the dirt tracked in by the patrons dispersed across the wider hardwood floor.

The bar was buzzing. Not crowded, persay, but full. La Muerte swallowed, pulling her shawl tighter around her shoulders; the wool which had felt so sturdy against the fall night air was suddenly insufficient protection.

A hefty upper arm clipped her shoulder, and she stumbled, nearly upending a table; the occupying trio of farmers clutched their _cervezas _protectively.

"_Pardón, senorita!" _The upper arm steadied her quickly, a kind smile winking briefly from beneath an impressive mustache, a smile she just as quickly returned. She recognized the man. He was called Pablo, the blacksmith's eldest son, and she had often watched him from the rooftops as he lovingly hammered horseshoes, axes, and wrought-iron beds out of shapeless lumps of iron. His hand on her wrist was rough and calloused from years of swinging hammers. "I hope you aren't hurt. You appeared out of nowhere."

"Perfectly alright, _señor,_" she said, readjusting her _rebozo. _"Thank you."

Instead of maintaining her invisibility, as she had while speaking with her sister outside the bar just moments ago, La Muerte had instead decided to don one of her many mortal disguises. Gods frequently used such glamours to move unnoticed among the human masses, especially in situations involving close proximity. Though mortals might be blissfully deaf and blind to most supernatural occurrences, they tended to become suspicious if they ran into a solid chunk of what appeared to be air. La Muerte still had yet to master this particular power, however, and so her disguises were limited; her form tonight was not much different from her usual appearance, barring a slightly darker skin color and brown eyes instead of yellow. She wished she could have managed something a little more complicated, but she just couldn't quite get the hang of Old Woman yet. Believable wrinkles were so difficult to fake.

Pablo watched her straighten out with concern in his eyes. "Do you live in San Angel, my lady? I've never seen you before."

"You could say I'm," La Muerte couldn't help the small, mysterious smile, and masked it quickly with a warmer one, "passing through."

"In that case, would you like an escort, _señorita? _It would be my pleasure. San Angel is the friendliest town I've ever lived in, but still, one cannot be too careful, yes? Especially a pretty lady such as yourself. You'll need protecting."

She barely managed to conceal the urge to scoff. _As if. _She was fairly certain that _this _pretty lady was more than capable of protecting herself. But she knew Pablo meant well. She waved him off with another warm smile.

"Again, thank you, kind sir, but I'm actually here to meet someone. I sincerely hope you enjoy the rest of your night, though."

The young man tipped his head, giving her a parting smile, and moved off into the corner, beers in hand, to where his father and a few of his friends were sitting at a rickety table. They eyed her with interest, and La Muerte smirked, imagining the grilling poor Pablo would receive when he returned to the table.

Slowly, she made her way to the bar, scanning it for any sign of the black wings from earlier. When she didn't see them, she frowned. Had he moved on? It was only a few minutes past midnight.

_Surely, Xibalba wouldn't give up on La Noche so easily? _La Muerte pursed her lips. If so, then he didn't deserve her anyway. Her sister daily turned down kings who were twice, no, _three times _the god Xibalba was rumored to be. It was his loss. She crossed her arms, huffing, and took a seat.

The little bartender was quick to attend her. His hair was so black and parted so perfectly that the top of his head reminded La Muerte of an inky midnight sky, split down the middle by a straight, white lightning bolt. It was a more than a little fascinating.

Unaware of (or accustomed to) the work of art that was his scalp, the bartender twitched his pencil-thin mustache, smiling as he asked, "What'll it be, _señorita?" _

"Something sweet," La Muerte said, passing a few coins across the sleek, immaculately polished bar. "And not very strong, if you please."

He twitched his mustache again, the vaguely bulbous, purple nose above it reminding her slightly of a radish. She bit back a smile.

"Sweet and not strong. A shot of tequila on ice? Something mixed? White wine? We have a nice pale ale if you like."

"Cream soda," she decided finally, smiling. Only recently had she been introduced to that particular human confection, and it was quickly pulling a close second place to her number one vice of gambling. She was addicted to the stuff. Upon noticing the bartender's stunned expression, she followed her order with a blushing, "If you have one."

As though suddenly stuck with a cattle prod, the man jerked into action. But he still wore a distinct look of bewilderment as his perfectly-parted hair vanished below the bar and emerged moments later with a small bottle of fizzing amber liquid. He popped the top open with a metal tool from his spotless apron.

"One cream soda. Would the lady like a glass for that, too?"

"No, thank you, this will be perfect." She tipped him generously, immediately dismissing any doubts the little bartender might have had about the new girl and her strange beverage tastes, and he returned to cleaning a shining pub glass, whistling cheerfully.

_Alone at last_. Sighing contentedly, she lifted the bottle to her lips. _No more whiny sisters, no sign of this Lord Xibalba anywhere, and one whole cream soda para mí. _She decided that if he didn't appear by the time she finished the bottle, she would call it a night. Lord or no lord. Maybe it wouldn't be such a terrible night after all.

"A cream soda?" said a low, baritone voice from her left. "A strange choice for a Saturday night, if you don't mind my saying so."

Spoke too soon.

Whirling, La Muerte came face to face with a very strange figure indeed. He was dressed head to toe in military uniform, a yellow stripe down his breeches indicating he was cavalry, and his shoulders squarely cut in a jacket so blue it almost looked violet. Silver fringe adorned the felt pauldrons on his shoulders, and a handsome row of shining medals lined the left side of his chest. One in particular stood out to her, shaped like a heart but emblazoned with a white skull in the middle, a ribbon of neon green and violet streaming from its mouth; and for a moment, she could have sworn it was glowing.

But before she could ponder more on that, her eyes strayed to his face. His features were so sharp that it looked as though his dark skin had been barely stretched over his skull. She was fairly certain that she could cut herself on his cheekbones. He wore a very distinguished, and slightly dangerous expression, his mouth wide and severe, framed by a jet-black goatee that only made his face seem all the more angular. Short hair the same color as his mustache was slicked back immaculately as if held by some invisible force, and she could see premature silver strands at his temple.

He looked ancient and, simultaneously, young. Ageless. His eyes were a piercing black flecked with electric green, like a pair of depthless cenotes set in white sand. She stared into them for only a moment before realizing that in doing so she was falling through time and space, falling into something's open mouth, something deep and dark. Something she needed to be wary of.

_Xibalba. _

The name sprang out before she could stop it, slipping out in the barest hiss of a word, and the man beside her grinned. His teeth were fangs.

"_Hola_." The greeting was so casual, so easy, but La Muerte felt the skin on her forearms crawl; something in the way he mouthed it, tasted it, and finally allowed it to roll off his tongue made those four little letters seem like the most intimidating thing anyone had ever said. "The pleasure is all mine."

She stared, wide-eyed. The man in front of her smirked, rolled his shoulders, and called to the bartender, "Hermán, make it a double. Neat."

That cattle prod again, and Hermán jumped into action, scrambling up the ladder for a top-shelf bottle and pouring a generous amount into a tumbler. He tripped all the way to the counter, managing to miraculously keep most of the scotch from spilling, and placed the glass delicately in front of Xibalba on a crisp paper napkin.

"Thank you," the god said smoothly.

"O-Of c-course, Señor X, sir," was the trembling reply. "A-Anytime."

With that, he shot to the other end of the bar as fast as his little feet could carry him, snatching up his glass and polishing it so intently that La Muerte worried he might rub a hole clean through his rag. He was looking everywhere but their end of the bar. She frowned.

"_Señor X_?" she asked, leaning an elbow on the counter and giving her new companion a glare. "A regular, are we?"

He sipped lightly at his whiskey, smirking at her from the crow-footed corner of one eye. "What can I say? I like to keep my hand in mortal affairs."

She cocked an eyebrow. "Never once in all the rumors I've heard has anyone spoken of your fondness for mankind."

"With good reason," he chuckled, shuddering visibly. "Vile creatures, the whole pack of them. The most I can say in their favor is that they make delightful pastimes."

She blinked. "How do you mean?"

He cast her a smile that she only returned with confusion. Grinning, he pivoted on his chair and with the gleeful intensity of someone picking out a new hat, he examined the assortment of humanity currently populating _El Tigre de Tijuana. _Finally, he snapped his gloved fingers.

It was barely detectable, but La Muerte saw it happen. A green spark flashed across one of the back legs of Pablo's wicker chair, just before the young blacksmith seated himself, his arms laden with a fresh round of beer. And then, with one small _crack_, the leg snapped clean in half, sending Pablo, his mustache, and all seven glasses of amber liquid crashing to the ground in one enormous, sticky heap.

La Muerte rose, eyes wide. Nearby bargoers clambered to help the young man to his feet, who luckily appeared to be none the worse for wear aside from a little dazed and soaked head to toe in beer, a fact which amused the other patrons to no end. Everyone roared with laughter which even Pablo, cheeks aflame, had to join after a while.

"That's my boy," his fathercrowed between guffaws, slapping his knee. "Always been clumsy. It's a wonder he still has all his fingers."

"Don't jinx me, _papá!" _

La Muerte slowly sank back into her stool, but Xibalba's enthusiastic laughs beside her were difficult to ignore.

"Are you _crazy?" _she demanded, whirling on him and almost upending her cream soda. "What if he'd hit his head? What if he'd landed on those glasses? This isn't funny, Xibalba."

His laughter fading to faint chuckles, the god wiped an imaginary tear from his eye. "No, you're right, not funny at all. _Hilarious, _that's the word I'm looking for…"

She didn't know quite what she was doing when it happened. It was as if her mind went blank for a minute or two, completely dark. Temporary insanity, as some might have said. Her body had taken over completely and she was just along for the ride. But before she could stop it, her hand whipped out, faster than a rattlesnake and glowing with golden sparks. She watched it in slow-motion from the back of her mind with a small, silent, open-mouthed scream of horror as it arced through the air in one leap of grace and made sharp, stinging contact with the side of Xibalba's face.

The sound was like a gunshot. The mariachi violin squeaked and the trumpet player missed his note, eyes wide and staring. The bar audibly gasped.

You see, every patron knew Señor X. They didn't know what he did, they didn't know who he was, but they could tell by the length of his stride and the way he carried himself that he was not an _hombre _to be messed with. He had been frequenting _El Tigre de Tijuana _for a long time now, and the unspoken, general consensus around San Angel was that he would be frequenting the bar long after most of the other patrons were gone. There was something about Señor X that couldn't be touched, that was to be seen silently from a distance, but never mentioned aloud.

The same Señor X whose cheek now bore a vibrant red handprint, a mirror image to the palm of the strange, new young woman who'd walked in off the street less than ten minutes ago.

A strange, new young woman who wore the same, dumbfounded expression of every last man in the bar. Her hand was still raised in the follow-through, and her _rebozo _barely clung to her elbows. Her eyes were as big as dinner plates.

Xibalba's initial shock melted slowly into a cool, neutral smile as he touched his injury with the hand not holding his whiskey. La Muerte trembled. Her long, immortal life was beginning to flash before her eyes.

_Why did I do that? Why, in the name of the Ancient Ones, did I do that? _

She'd always wondered if gods could die, and now she was finally going to find out. Her brain was already mapping exit routes, reckoning that she would be able to upend enough tables to beat him to the door, and once outside she would be free to teleport home.

Where La Noche would kill her for slapping her boyfriend. She blanched. _Oh, lagartos morados…_

She was seriously considering breaking rule number one of godly-inconspicuousness and vanishing in a puff of marigolds right then and there. But then, Xibalba fixed her with the most devious smirk she'd ever seen on a human face, raised his glass to her, and said in a voice loud enough for the entire bar to hear:

"_Y para mí, eso se siente como el amor." _

_That feels like love to me. _

And with that, he threw back his whiskey in one quick swallow. The bar erupted into laughter and cheers, and as the mariachi band gleefully resumed playing a few of the more drunk patrons dared to approach and slap Xibalba on the back in congratulations. He stiffened visibly, which La Muerte couldn't see through the sudden red fog that had clouded her vision; she barely resisted the urge to smack him again, and suddenly realized the reason she'd done it in the first place. Something about this man simply begged to be smacked, and she was only too happy to oblige.

_How. Dare. He?!_

Apparently reading her mind, Xibalba leered dangerously. "I wouldn't, if I was you. You won't like what happens next."

"_Wanna bet?" _

"Try me."

La Muerte stood ramrod straight, seething and seriously weighing her options. _Instant gratification of sending his jaw across the floor followed by your own quick and painful death? Or swallow pride just once, accept that he kept you from embarrassing yourself in public, and sit. _

She sat.

"That really wasn't funny. You could have killed him."

Xibalba signaled Hermán, who quickly scuttled over with the bottle and a slightly more confident smile (apparently the fact that Señor X was capable of being slapped was enough to convince the bar that he wasn't so inhuman after all).

"Oh, please. They're remarkably resilient, as a species," he muttered into his glass. "They haven't managed to kill themselves off yet, and they've been working at it for quite a few centuries now."

The words stabbed La Muerte's heart like barbed arrows, and she winced. She didn't like to think about the horrible things humans were capable of doing to each other, the forever-new and imaginative ways they invented for ripping each other to pieces, the excuses they concocted to expunge their own guilt when, for one brief moment, they were able to pull back and see their own handiwork.

And speaking of hands.

Through her half-empty bottle of cream soda, she could see the red imprint on Xibalba's cheek glaring at her in a most accusatory fashion. She winced again, mumbling something to the countertop.

He glanced in her direction. "Beg pardon?"

"I said I was sorry for slapping you."

"Come again? Sorry, you might have jarred something loose in there, I can't quite hear out of this ear."

She couldn't help it. A smile broke out across her lips and she chuckled, shaking her head at a coaster, which she spun idly with a finger.

"Don't mention it. Not the first time I've been slapped by a beautiful woman, certainly won't be the last."

He said it casually enough, so smoothly that if she hadn't noticed the way he was smiling at her with the corner of his mouth, the way his eyes were sparkling in that dark, secret, cenote way of his, she might not have even noticed it at all. The 'b'-word he threw at her disguised in a joke. It took an extraordinary amount of effort to fight off the blush before it appeared on her face.

_Get a grip on yourself, chica, por Dios! __La Noche. Think of La Noche._

But at the momento, all she could think about La Noche was that her sister was a stronger woman than she had ever realized. Arrogant, yes, cynical, definitely; but the god before her was undeniably, dangerously charming.

She shook herself, steering the conversation back into safe waters. "So, speaking of beautiful women, what brings you to San Angel tonight, Xibalba? Waiting for someone?"

As though suddenly struck with a very unpleasant smell, the god's face twisted into a grimace. He leaned in his chair, catching a glimpse of the clock tower out the window. "I was," he sighed. "But it would appear that she has eluded me once again." He chuckled wryly. "She's lucky I'm just too stubborn to give up so easily. More stubborn than her, I'd wager."

"Would you?"

He blinked, turned, and looked at her. "Would I what?"

La Muerte bit her lip, feeling her heart flutter madly, vaguely aware she was playing with fire. But this perfect opportunity had presented itself, and she was not going to give it up for the world.

"Would you wager on that, Xibalba?"

Here, he grinned, devilishly, and for one flickering moment in the candlelight, she could see his true form. Ten feet tall, enormous black wings making it an uneven thirteen, glowing green from beneath a cape of black tar, and his teeth like serrated knife blades. Just a glimpse. But she didn't shiver. She smirked goadingly.

"That reminds me," he said, sidestepping her bet deftly and sliding back into his chair. "You have me at a disadvantage, my lady. You know my name, and I don't know yours."

"Names have power, Xibalba," she answered promptly, finishing her cream soda and rising. "And I wouldn't give you mine for all the gold of Cortez."

"I bet I can guess it."

She almost squealed. "Do you?"

"Yes, I do," he leered, tracing the rim of his glass with one, long finger. "Three guesses, no more, no less. If I guess correctly, you…"

She bit her lip. He visibly mulled the stakes over in his mind, thinking. Finally, he smiled and snapped his fingers at Hermán, who was quickly at attendance with the bottle of whiskey. But as he prepared to refill Xibalba's tumbler, he was stopped by the god himself, who simply took the bottle from his hands. Hermán blinked in surprise.

"If I guess correctly, you," Xibalba placed the bottle on the counter between them with one solid thud, "will drink every last drop of whiskey in this bottle. All at once."

La Muerte caught the gasp in her throat and quickly swallowed it. She wasn't a stranger to alcohol, after all. She thoroughly enjoyed wine, tequila, and the occasional helping of coconut rum. But she couldn't help but be intimidated; she had never been a fan of whiskey, and the bottle before her was definitely _not _small. And more than halfway full.

"I couldn't…" she whispered.

He shrugged. "Then the bet is off."

But as he made to push the bottle away, her hand landed on top of his, stopping it dead in its tracks. He looked at her, feigning surprise. La Muerte wore her most determined expression.

"And if you _don't _guess my name," she said, "you will appear for lunch at La Noche's palacio tomorrow promptly at one o'clock. Those are my stakes."

He looked surprised for the briefest of moments. His eyes narrowed and raked her face, as though searching for any form of clue. She did her best to look innocent, which was difficult as the wide grin simply refused to leave her face.

"Then, by the Ancient Rules," he said, matching her grin and extending a long, gloved hand. "The Wager is set."

* * *

_A/N: This whole situation stems from a blurb I read on the BoL Wiki forever ago claiming that Xibalba and La Muerte met as teenagers in a San Angel bar. So…yeah. Can I get some backup on that? Reviews are cherished and much desired._


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